


Safe With Me

by HesitateDisintegrate



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Brotherly Love, Dean Winchester is Protective of Sam Winchester, Fire, Hurt Sam Winchester, Implied/Referenced Torture, Other, Sam Winchester is Not Okay, Sam Winchester is Scarred For Life, Sleep Deprivation, Sleeping Sam Winchester, Torture, Whump, Witch Hunts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:01:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26226823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HesitateDisintegrate/pseuds/HesitateDisintegrate
Summary: Sam Winchester is captured and tortured by a witch, who has made an absolute mess of his torso. Dean finally finds and saves him, but even within the safety of the hotel room, Sam can't sleep. He has spent years sleeping on his stomach to avoid waking to another person burning on the ceiling, but now his usual position is not an option.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 117
Collections: Sam Winchester WHUMP





	Safe With Me

**Author's Note:**

> Mildly edited. As always, feel free to point out mistakes or make requests!

“Dude you’re going to crush your molars,” Sam stated from the passenger seat. He was leaning against the door, head tilted to the cool window, hand pressed to the gashes on his belly.

“Sorry,” Dean spared him a quick glance and fixed his eyes back on the road, making a conscious effort to loosen his jaw and look more relaxed than he was. It was all an act, how could it not be? How could he honestly be expected not to clench his jaw, or worse, when his brother was currently bleeding beside him. 

Sam was lucky Dean had found him when he had. Stupid witches. Always taking hostages and making bargains. Stupid hex bags and spells and near deaths. Dean couldn’t be bothered when it came to his own life. He knew he would live and die on the supernatural battleground and that was completely fine with him. But Sam? He deserved so much better than two days of torture at the hands of a scumbag. Killing her hadn’t even been that satisfying, her damage had already been done.

Dean passed a hand roughly over his face, trying to wipe out the image of Sam, strapped on his back to a bloodied wooden table. He wouldn’t talk about what happened, but the deep slices on his belly and the haunted look in his eyes told Dean everything he needed to know. 

Sam clearly hadn’t slept in the two days since he had disappeared. Now, he looked like he was dozing in and out, but every time the car hit a bump he jolted awake. 

Dean pressed harder on the gas and the Impala barrelled towards their current motel. Dean would make sure he got Sam cleaned, bandaged, fed, and tucked into bed. He could worry about beating himself up once his brother was taken care of.

Twenty tense minutes later, Dean tried to keep his trembling hands from fumbling too much with the room key. Once he finally got it open, Sam stepped into the room and all the strength he seemed to have had in the car seeped out of him. He sank into a chair.

“I’ll get the shower running?” Dean asked, knowing if he commented on his brother’s pain he would get nothing more than silence and a pointed look. Sam may always be a child to him, but to the world and to himself, Sam was a man. An untouchable, unshakable man.

Sam nodded and bent slowly to untie his boots. Dean took this as confirmation that he probably wouldn’t faint in the next minute, so he ducked into the bathroom to turn the water on and lay out a towel. 

Sam half walked half stumbled into the teeny room, and Dean watched him begin to peel off his shirt. It was stuck to his skin with caked dirt and blood, and Sam moved slowly, but his pace seemed to be caused more by exhaustion than pain. 

Dean stepped out to give him some privacy, leaving the door open just a crack, in case Sam needed something and called out. He kicked his shoes off and pulled out the softest of Sam’s t-shirts, a pair of sweats, and a pair of boxers out of Sam’s duffle bag. He reached a hand into the bathroom to deposit the clothes on what was hopefully the counter.

“Dude! Get out,” Sam complained.

“Sorry Sammy, not my fault you can’t remember to bring in some clothes.” Dean called back loudly so Sam could hear it over the sound of the water. 

Dean was soaking some gauze in alcohol when the shower shut off. Sam stepped out of the bathroom a minute later, mostly dressed and towelling off his hair. He held the t-shirt in his hand as if he didn’t quite know what to do with it. 

Tiny rivulets of water flowed over his chest and down to the gashes, which, now that they were cleaned somewhat, looked less like sharp cuts and more like engravings. The bruising around them made it crystal clear that they were not done with anything sharp, and the process had definitely not been quick. 

“Sit down Sammy, I want to take a proper look,” Dean said, pushing Sam gently down onto his bed.

“It doesn’t hurt Dean. I just want to sleep,” Sam answered, yawning halfway through.

“Dumb bitch didn’t concuss you did she?” Dean asked angrily.

“No my head is fine. Just exhausted.”

Dean knelt and touched his brother’s bruised skin, right beside the raw opening of a gash. The marks were shallow; the skin looked more like it had been scraped or burnt away.

“This isn’t deep enough to warrant stitches. I can close it up if you want but its probably gonna twist and scar if I do that.”

“Do whatever you want Dean,” Sam said, letting his eyes close gently. He let his upper body flop backwards onto the bed, giving Dean full access to treat his torso. 

Dean’s heart wretched. His brother looked done. Drained. No energy left to even feel the pain from what really should have been some quite painful wounds. 

Dean took his time scrubbing his hands clean in the bathroom. He picked up some antibacterial ointment, gauze, and tape. Sam didn’t even flinch as Dean dabbed the cuts clean with alcohol, then gently spread the ointment into his raw exposed skin. He slowly packed on a loose dressing, covering the wounds just so they wouldn’t get infected. 

Once he was done, Dean packed the supplies away and grabbed a change of clothes.

“Are you hungry Sam? I can go pick something up if you want,” 

“I’m fine Dean. Go shower. I just want to sleep,” Sam answered. He gingerly got up and pulled the bedspread down to make room for himself under the covers. 

Dean nodded and showered quickly. He would have loved to go out for burgers and a beer with his brother, but unfortunately not every hunt ends with both of them in diner frequenting shape. He scrubbed at his skin, thoroughly annoyed with himself for allowing Sam to be captured. Worse than captured, allowing him to be tortured. 

Dean knew it wasn’t totally rational, he knew that the exact play by play of every hunt wasn’t up to him, but it didn’t take the sting away. It didn’t drown out the voice that said Sam was his responsibility and if anything happened to him it was Dean’s fault. He felt so horrible about it that it may as well have been him carving into his brother, not some witch instead. 

Once the heat of the water became unbearable, Dean turned off the shower, dried off, and put on his clothes. He stepped out of the bathroom quietly so as not to wake Sam, but was surprised to find him standing exactly where he had left him, holding a corner of the blanket as if frozen in time. 

“Sam?” Dean said softly.

Sam turned and looked at him slowly, as if he was breaking out of a trance.

“I can’t sleep,” he said in a hollow voice.

“What do you mean you can’t sleep? You’re dead on your feet. Just lay down and close your eyes and I’m sure you’ll manage.”

“No I -,” Sam stuttered. “I can’t sleep,” He repeated, gesturing to his wrapped torso, now under a t-shirt, as if the explanation should have been obvious.

“You’re gonna have to help me out here brother,” Dean said, confused.

Sam shot him a desperate, almost panicked look.

“I can’t lay down,” Sam explained, sounding small, sounding terrified. 

It all clicked for Dean at once. Mom. Jess. The fires on the ceiling in the nursery, then in the dorm room twenty years later. He felt stupid, not having noticed before that Sam never slept on his back. Waking up to dripping blood and a burning mother or girlfriend would be enough to make anyone sleep with their face mashed into the pillow forever from that moment on. 

Dean felt his arms weaken. He tossed the dirty clothing and wet towel he had been holding back into the bathroom, and gathered his brother up into a gentle hug. 

“I’ve got you Sammy. We’ll figure this one out.” 

Sam exhaled, shuddering slightly.

Dean let go and crawled into the bed, laying down on his back and beckoning to Sam.

Sam looked at Dean like he was crazy, but clambered onto the bed and sat down, unsure.

Dean rolled his eyes and tugged his brother down slowly. He arranged them so Sam was mostly face down, leaning heavily against Dean, head on his shoulder. The lean kept his bandages from pushing into the bed.

“This is stupid,” Sam said, voice muffled by Dean’s shirt.

“Shut up dude, you need to sleep. Got a better idea?”

There was no answer. Sam had already drifted off against the solid safety of this brother. Dean looked down at the damp head of hair and let an arm rest against Sam’s shoulders. 

He relaxed slowly, listening to Sam breathe in an out and knowing that whatever this horrid life threw their way, this would never change. He would never stop being the big brother Sam turned to when things went sour. He would always fight for Sam. He would always find him, kill for him, play doctor, mother, therapist, chauffeur. At the end of the day, nothing mattered as long as Dean could have his brother safe and by his side.


End file.
